The Way To Win

A brief note on last nights win. I enjoy come from behind 9th inning wins very much. Though they are slightly less dramatic when you are the away team, it's no less exhilarating to see the 83-mph fastball go sailing over the fence.

That's the beauty of the slow game of baseball. For 3+ hours it languishes on in April. Where in basketball, football and hockey the action is always continuous, always occurring, baseball lacks that consistency. And in there is why it is so magnificent. Without the slow doldrums of the game, the apexes would lack actual peaks. Constant scoring minimizes the point of scoring sometimes. Scoring 15 runs only means you have to keep the other team from scoring 14. Scoring 1 run means you have to do everything to keep the other team from scoring. While being down a run makes a base runner seem more like water in the desert than a kid at the candy store. And so that run to tie and homer to win was a monumental thirst quencher after the parching length and pace of the game.

For The First Inning

I remember as a kid watching baseball specifically on Fridays and Sundays on TV38. It was the only time we ever got to see the Sox. Before ESPN. Before FOX. Mercifully before TBS. On one particular night, there was a depressing rain delay that pushed the first pitch past my 9-year-old bedtime. My brother and I convinced our mom that we would only watch the first inning of the game as it was getting late -- even for a Friday night. 

So we set up the black and white 13-inch TV between our double beds. Our eyes ragged and bloodshot with the daily life of a 9-year-old. The tv itself was gerry-rigged with a metal hanger for bunny ears and pliers for a UHF and VHF dial. The picture could not have been clearer to us kids. HDTV does little in comparison to the privilege to stay up late and merely watch a game. To fight sleep and airplanes for the strike count. 

Anyway, on this night about a half-hour after we all but signed legal documents promising mom we'd go to bed after the first inning, mom storms into our room. She believed most assuredly we were milking her goodwill and did not appreciate our disrespect. And for a moment we were in trouble. But just as quickly we sat up in bed trying to convince mom that it was still only the first inning and that the game had just gone well for the Sox. They were scoring runs, we swore to Mom. Only after the picture returned and all was calm did she believe us. And it came on the next pitch which resulted in the final out. Mom was bad luck. Since then, she avoided making that promise.

Tonight, Isaac was fussing and crying and would not go to sleep. So I picked him up and sat him with his mother -- the only one able to pacify him. I made him a promise: you get to watch the first inning. The same ill-fated promise my mom made to us I was making to him. The images were clearer and the sound crisper and his eyes more tired than mine. He made it through Ellsbury's walk in the first. And sure enough, it was a long inning.

I'm not sure if there's something I should've learned from mom about parenting in these situations. About making promises like that that could backfire on you. But I have not. I have only learned that staying up past one's bedtime to watch a baseball game is a privilege. And that putting your hopes in something outside of your control is a cool feeling sometimes -- even though we were routing for runs more so that we could remain awake than win a game.

Reason #37

It was good to see Buckner yesterday. See him wobble to the mound. See the Fenway True respond as they always should have. To see him throw to Dwight Evans. That was nice. Odd. Eerie. But nice. Since I was old enough to understand the game, I realized it wasn't Buckner's fault. There were others more responsible for losing that game than he. Yet he is only seen, like achievement, because he stands atop their shoulders. So I am in concord with the man when he says he has never had to forgive the fans or the organization or baseball but the media. Media love a fall guy. He was the fall guy who never needed to fall. And so the media lushed upon him yesterday. Upon his ill-begotten knees. Openly splaying forgiveness and restitution for the man they wronged. But it was good to see him where he is: with a baseball in his hand at Fenway.

Opening Day at Fenway yesterday. In my wisdom I failed to get time off and was stuck at work while my father watched the game on a projection screen. No problem, I'll enjoy my hot dogs and ice cream and soda at home and watch the game delayed online. About eight o'clock I sit down for dinner after a bad, bad day and prepare to relax in tradition. The game comes on. One second before I switch to full screen mode, MLB.tv streams across my media player a graphic that reads: Dice-K pitches great as Red Sox win Home Opener.

Reason #37 why I hate MLB the organization.

A Good Start

3-1 is an acceptable start. I haven't been able to catch the games with the events and timing of the past few days, but it seems like we're playing well. Ortiz came out of his struggles for a moment; I'm a little concerned Ellsbury was benched with his recent struggles at the plate. But it's still real early to analyze too much.

One thing that has been pleasant lately is to be talking baseball again. Either through banter with a Yankee fan or on the Atlanta Braves season outlook, baseball is back. I've missed the discussion that always pervades the hours between games. And I've drafted a decent fantasy team as well, thus increasing my enjoyment for the season only in its infancy.

Baseball is back.